The Broken House
by E. G. Morgan
Summary: The Malfoys haven't been on solid footing with the Dark Lord since Draco's botched assassination attempt, and he'd do anything to prove himself. But when he's charged with the punishment of a family friend, he thinks "anything" may be too broad of a term.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Alethea LaChasse, her family, and their home are creations of the author. All other characters and references are the property of J.K. Rowling and are used with respect._

The Broken House

Narcissa Malfoy stood before the broken house, holding her wand tightly so that the slender baton's shaking wouldn't reveal her fear. Across the garden, where the front stoop had once been, a young woman knelt in the snow, barefoot, in her pajamas, her head bowed as if in prayer.

"I am disappointed, Alethea, to find you home alone." The speaker's voice was cold and stern, despite the affectation of a light, conversational tone. Narcissa squeezed her wand until her knuckles were whiter than her pale skin, then relaxed her hand. She dared to glance at the man in the dark robes who had just led the attack on this house.

The man—if he could really be called that—took two slow and deliberate steps toward the girl, who didn't move. Clouds of vapor emerged from two snake-like slits in the middle of his face where his nose should have been, his breath freezing in the air like everyone around him. Narcissa looked to her husband, who stared blankly ahead, and then to her sister, who smiled gleefully and moved her feet as if she itched to dance. Narcissa snapped back to attention as Voldemort spoke again.

"Tell me: where are your parents this evening?"

The girl muttered something, but the Dark Lord flicked his wand. The girl's head snapped back, and there was terror in her wide blue eyes. "Speak up, girl!" Voldemort roared.

"My aunt's!" she cried. "My aunt is sick. My mother's sister."

The dark-robed man paced slowly before her, leaving footprints in the snow. "They left you here alone?" he asked. "These are dangerous times, Alethea. Why would they not protect their only daughter?"

She whimpered, and he pointed his wand at her. "You will answer me."

Alethea closed her eyes. "We had nothing to be afraid of," she said, her voice stronger than before. "We are pure, we are an old family, and we have been faithful servants."

Voldemort sneered. "Then why are you cowering before me in front of the ruins of your childhood home?" he said patiently.

"I-I don't know," she replied.

Narcissa didn't know either. Half an hour earlier, Voldemort strode into Malfoy Manor and ordered the family to don their cloaks. "We're paying a visit to some old friends," he had said cheerfully. "Pomeroy and Genevieve LaChasse."

Genevieve and Narcissa had gone to school together, roomed in the Slytherin dungeons for seven years. Their children were born within weeks of each other. Though not the best of friends, they saw each other with some regularity, and Narcissa liked Genevieve.

She had been shocked, then, when Voldemort had asked them to travel to Hôtel de LaChasse and destroy it. Narcissa had been afraid to resist, Lucius hadn't batted an eye (though recently it had been impossible to tell what he was thinking). Only her son, Draco, had shown some reluctance to annihilate the family of one of his classmates. Narcissa hated herself for allowing him to come.

Her son now stood as far from the old house as he could, as if a mere bystander. He held his wand at his side, and as far as his mother could tell, the only damage his wand had inflicted on the Hôtel was a curse aimed at the _porte-cochère_, the coach gate attached to side of the old house, and the obliteration of a garden shed. In fact, both structures seemed to be in better shape than the house itself. Narcissa felt a surge of shame at Draco's half-hearted attempts, tempered secretly by a tiny blossom of pride.

"You don't know?" Voldemort said. "Your father failed to complete a task I assigned him. You insist that your family has served me faithfully, Alethea, but I'm afraid you're mistaken. You must be made an example of."

The Dark Lord lifted his wand. The girl screamed something, begging to be spared. Narcissa cringed and opened her mouth.

"Wait, my lord," the woman said loudly. Voldemort froze, then turned his head.

"You object to me killing this traitor?" he replied acidly.

"She is pure of blood, with an ancient name," Narcissa began. "And she is only seventeen. It is a shame to kill one who has so much to offer the new world you are building."

He cocked his head. "Her parents have defied me."

"Kill her!" Bellatrix cackled.

Narcissa ignored her. "So they have, my lord," she nodded. "Perhaps you could… give her to one of your faithful followers." All eyes were on her. "Separate her from her family. Trust me, not knowing if your child is alive or dead is the worst torture a parent could imagine." She sniffed. "And if her guardian chose to humiliate her and her family, how much the better?"

There was a moment of silence, punctuated briefly by Alethea's sob. Snowflakes began to drift from the dark sky again, attempting to hide the destruction under a blanket of white.

"Lucius," the Dark Lord finally said, "you have married a very shrewd woman."

"My lord," the man replied softly.

Voldemort whirled around. "Draco!" he said. "Come here, my boy."

Draco moved slowly and stiffly like a mechanical doll. His hair glowed white in the moonlight, his face even whiter, as if he were a part of the snow falling around him. Voldemort put his arm around the boy, and all three Malfoys flinched.

"You have always worked very hard for me, Draco," Voldemort said. "I'm sure I have caused you no little amount of stress." His tone was almost comforting, almost fatherly. His eyes narrowed and he once more raised his wand. "Happy Christmas," he hissed, and lifted the girl roughly from the stoop with his wand, tossing her to the ground at Draco's feet. With that, Voldemort and Bellatrix Disapparated with a resounding crack. The Malfoys were alone.

Narcissa and Lucius stared at their son and the shivering, crying girl at his feet. Narcissa cleared her throat. "Well." Draco's eyes shifted from the girl to his mother. Narcissa flexed her wand hand nervously. "This isn't what I had in mind."

Lucius raked a hand through his hair. "Humiliation, Cissy? What an idea to put in the Dark Lord's mind. He's managed to kill two birds with one curse."

He was right. Voldemort had given this girl to a seventeen-year-old wizard knowing it would torment her and her family. And though it hadn't been Narcissa's initial intent, everyone knew what sort of humiliation the Dark Lord anticipated. But because Alethea was a LaChasse, one of the Malfoys' friends, Voldemort had brought shame to the Malfoys as well. People would talk about how they held the LaChasse girl hostage—and how their son had been given permission to disgrace her.

Draco looked down at the top of the girls' head. Snowflakes were melting into her golden-brown hair, making it sparkle like a vial of Felix Felicis. He undid the clasp of his cloak and laid it unceremoniously across the girl's back. Narcissa smiled grimly.

"Better you than someone else, Draco," she said. "I'll go prepare a room for her." Narcissa Disapparated.

Draco shared a look with his father. Lucius said nothing before he too disappeared with a sound like gunpowder.

Alethea shivered on the ground, finding herself unable to move since Voldemort's sinister "Happy Christmas." No spell held her, but she felt sure nonetheless that no spell could induce her to stand. Her feet were frozen, her wand missing and buried in debris, and everything she owned destroyed. On top of that, the Darkest of Lords was campaigning against her parents and she had just been _given_ to one of Voldemort's most loyal followers like a box of toffees or a new jumper. She hoped Draco would leave her there to freeze. It would be a happier end.

"Get up," Draco said quietly.

"Leave me," Alethea whispered.

Draco knelt in the snow, feeling it melt into the knees of his trousers. He arranged the cloak over her shoulders and clasped it beneath her chin. The cloak was thick and warmer than she wished to acknowledge. Draco took her arm and dragged her to her feet, and she finally looked him in the face. He seemed more scared than angry, more confused than cruel. He didn't break eye contact even as he took her hand and Disapparated.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

They reappeared in a very large and very cold room. There were tapestries on the walls and a huge fireplace, but without a fire in it the room was not much warmer than it had been outside. The furnishings were heavy and austere: a grand mahogany desk, a matching wardrobe that towered as high as the four-poster bed draped with thick velvet curtains. A chest stood guard at the foot of the bed. A round table sat at the other end of the room, covered in odds and ends, schoolbooks and parchment. And it was dark.

The moment he felt his feet touch the ground after the rather unnerving trip, Draco released Alethea's hand and strode toward the wardrobe. "Sit," he said, his back to her.

She looked around and spotted a big winged armchair by the fireplace. She wished she had her wand so she could start a fire—whether in the fireplace or the entire first floor of Malfoy Mansion, she couldn't decide. Unsure what other choice she had at the moment, she moved slowly, still shivering, to the chair and lowered herself into it. It was well worn and comfortable, its owner's favorite seat.

"Here." She turned in time to catch what Draco tossed to her. It was a pair of men's silver silk pajamas. "They're not very warm, but at least they're not wet."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Put them on. I won't look."

She glared at him, and he sighed. "There. Behind the screen." He pointed to the corner of the room where a painted screen stood. With a shudder, Alethea stood and made the short journey, though every step was more painful as her feet began to thaw. She peeked from behind the screen and saw Draco pointing his wand at the fireplace. A bright glow erupted, lighting his face and half the room. As she dressed with tingling fingers, Alethea noticed the room grow lighter and warmer almost immediately. Impossible from one fireplace.

The pajamas were too long and the shirt gapped revealingly, but she kept Draco's cloak wrapped around her and returned to the chair by the fire. Draco had lit a good dozen candles, including those in a heavy candelabra and an ornate chandelier, and the air smelled comforting. She hoped whatever incantation he had used to warm the room wouldn't affect her judgment or somehow poison her. The fire was heavenly, though, and she moved her feet closer to it.

"Careful," Draco said. "Don't warm them too fast or they'll hurt."

She didn't know whether to believe him or hit him, so she didn't move. He strode toward her and knelt on the rug in front of the fireplace. He covered her toes with the palms of his hands.

"Your hands aren't much warmer than my feet," Alethea muttered.

"What do you expect in the middle of winter?" Draco retorted. But he kept his hands where they were.

Soon more feeling returned to her feet, not aching, but pleasant. After a few silent moments, Draco said, "Not too close," and moved across the room. As he tidied the things on the table, hiding those he didn't want her to see, he wondered what had possessed him. But he supposed it wasn't impossible to feel sorry for a family friend whom the Dark Lord had marked for death. He shifted his head so he could see her in his periphery. She was gazing into the fire, wrapped tightly in his cloak, tears sliding down her cheeks. She was a good-looking woman, or would be in a few years—almost lovely. He wouldn't have hesitated to use her as Voldemort intended had she been a Mudblood or a whore. But she was his equal, an old friend, a classmate. If he thought hard enough he probably could have discovered that she was, perhaps, his fourth cousin, some not-too-distant relation. The thought of humiliating her made him uncomfortable.

His affairs in order and unable to find another excuse to stay away from her, Draco returned to the fireplace and glanced around. She was in his chair. His favorite chair. With a sigh of resignation he sank to the ground and began to warm his hands by the leaping flames.

"How are you feeling?" he said brusquely.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't." He swallowed. "I just helped the Dark Lord destroy your house. Maybe I feel a little culpable."

"I should think so."

"It wasn't my idea, alright?"

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The logs crackled and spat.

"At least tell me you're warmer," Draco finally said.

"I'm warmer," Alethea replied curtly.

Silence again.

"Draco," she began, so softly he had to lean forward to hear her, "you're not really going to…"

He cleared his throat. "You think I don't have the guts?"

"I'm not doubting your ability to," she said quickly. "I was just hoping… that you wouldn't."

The scared look in her eyes lit some sort of fire within him. He was torn between wiping the tears from her cheeks and taking her right this minute, just to show that he could. "I'm a Malfoy. I have a powerful family. We play host to the Dark Lord himself. You should feel honored."

It was a stretch. And Alethea noticed he wasn't trying to make himself appear seductive or attractive. If all he had was power, power that he wasn't even going to offer her, there was no way she'd come quietly.

"Besides," he added with a gleam in his eye, and she realized she had spoken too soon. Like a match head igniting, Draco went from impudent boy to confident man. He stood smoothly and grabbed her upper arm, pulling her to her feet. He traced the inside of the collar of her borrowed pajamas, dragging a finger from her collarbone to her sternum—and lower. "How do you know you won't like it?"

His hands were warmer than before, so Alethea couldn't explain her shivering. Draco was seventeen, a fellow Slytherin, a boy she had known forever. She wasn't afraid of him. That is, she hadn't been afraid of him, until just now.

But maybe he was all words. Maybe he was putting on an act that he had practiced a hundred times in the privacy of his room, not knowing quite how to finish it. Maybe he wouldn't follow through, in the same way he hadn't followed through with another of Voldemort's commands.

She took a deep breath and replied, "I'm pretty sure I won't." Best to assume an air of confidence like his. She had seen him fly off the handle when provoked. He'd stand up for himself to a point, then run away. Could she recreate a famous Potter-Malfoy fight to save herself?

"Why do you say that?" he whispered in her ear, allowing his lips to graze her neck. He slid his tracing hand under her shirt and pushed it off her shoulder.

She sighed sweetly. "I would be mortified if I couldn't help but laugh when you took off your pants."

He stepped back and locked eyes with her. His grip on her arm tightened and his eyes reflected the raging fire in the hearth. It was a low blow, but it might have done the trick, she thought.

"Have anything else you want to say, LaChasse?" he said coldly.

"Whatever you were doing just now, you're not tempting me," she said. "And I'm not planning on being very impressed, at least, not for any great length of time."

He narrowed his eyes. "You finished, then?"

She lifted her chin and nodded. He took a step forward again; his chest was flush against hers, and he looked down into her eyes with that look that had so frightened her a moment ago. He wasn't pouting, or fighting, or running away. Her plan wasn't working.

"Bad news, Thea," he said softly, his face an inch from hers. "I know what you're trying to do, and I find it… extremely sexy."

She felt his hands at the front of her shirt, undoing the top button. "Draco," she said, her confidence failing.

"You're spirited," he said, as if he hadn't heard her. "You're sure of yourself, or pretend to be." He was on the second button, and it slipped easily through its hole. "You're clever." The third button was undone. "You're pretty," he said after a pause, wondering if it was the right thing to say. She stared at him as he undid the fourth button.

"You forgot one," she said. "You forgot 'the Dark Lord bullied me into this.'"

The final button was undone, and Draco slipped his hands through the opening, sliding them across her stomach and over her hips. "He may have given me the idea," Draco said, "but you're the one who twisted my arm."

"Twisted your arm?" Alethea scoffed.

He smiled. "You're angry. You're trying to wound me, but you're only making me want to prove you wrong." He removed a hand from under her shirt and stroked her cheek. "I plan to prove you wrong, Thea."

"Don't call me Thea," she said sternly. "My family calls me Thea. My friends call me Thea. And you fit neither category."

"You're right," he said, his hands at her throat. She flinched and he moved them to her shoulders, sliding the silk to the side. "I'm something else entirely."

Before she could stop him, he pushed the shirt all the way off her shoulders. It spilled down her arms like water and pooled at her feet. She didn't have time to feel exposed: Draco pulled her against him and suddenly she realized he was kissing her.

For some reason she had expected him to be rough, unpracticed. He was popular at school, but she had only ever seen him with one girl, last year. Before that, he had never seemed romantically inclined. She had snogged a few guys herself, but never for any extended period of time. In fairness, neither of them should have known what they were doing. So where did he learn to kiss like this? And why did she feel perfectly confident kissing him back?

One of his hands was splayed across her bare back, the other tangled in her hair. She wasn't sure she would be able to get free if she tried. She wasn't sure she wanted to. Gathering up as much strength as she could, Thea pulled her mouth away from his. He buried his face in the delicious patch of skin where her neck met her shoulder, nibbling at her collarbone and leaving warm kisses everywhere he could reach.

"What spell did you use?" she said, finding it difficult to spit out the words.

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied, kissing her jaw line, her earlobe.

She shivered. "I didn't do anything."

He held his mouth a hair's breadth from hers. "Didn't you?"

He was kissing her again, pushing her gently toward the bed. She wanted to fight him, thought that was what she should do, but he was strong and she was tired and moreover, he was kissing her like she had never thought possible. And suddenly what she thought she should do and what she wanted to do became two very different things.

She found herself on her back on his vast bed, working at the buttons on his shirt. He only took his mouth away from hers to taste another morsel of her skin, her shoulder, her wrist, her belly. Finally she opened his shirt and helped him out of its sleeves. His chest was as smooth and pale as marble, his muscles chiseled. He was thin, but strong. She wondered what else there was to see.

With a little finagling, Draco had taken off the rest of the silver pajamas, as well as what lay underneath them. He helped her with his belt and fly, and before long she could feel his warm body all along the length of her own. But for some reason she couldn't stop shivering.

Draco noticed her shaking and couldn't understand why. Everything so far had felt right, had felt like the right way to proceed. He thought she had begun to relax, that his spell, as she called it, was starting to take effect. "Thea," he murmured, stroking her hair.

"Don't," she began, but he nibbled on her earlobe and darted his tongue into her ear and she vowed not to say another word.

He kissed her again, harder, and she felt his hands migrating lower, stroking the flesh that rose and fell with each ragged breath. Her body responded immediately as he brushed his smooth, cool thumbs across her chest. He traced circles with his fingers, and she knew why she was shivering.

"Thea," he said again against her mouth, running his tongue along her lower lip. "Oh, Thea."

Saying her name was having a curious effect on him. Thea felt him hard on her thigh, and he groaned as he rubbed against her. He replaced his thumb with his mouth, and Thea heard a sigh escape her lips.

"Draco," she said. He murmured something without moving his mouth from its goal. She took a deep breath, for courage. "I'm not used to this."

He closed his teeth gently on her skin before lifting his head. He nudged her legs open with his knee and entered her more quickly than he had intended. She gasped.

He pressed his forehead to hers. "Does it hurt?" he asked. He nuzzled her cheek and ear with his nose.

"No," she replied. "It's just... big."

He grinned and began to move. She placed her hands on his slender hips and lifted her mouth to his.

"Get used to it," he said, plunging his tongue between her parted lips.

Draco took both of her hands and pinned them down on either side of her head. She surprised herself by entwining her fingers with his.

"Are you… used to it?" she asked shyly.

He searched her face, wanting to give her the answer she sought and hoping he wouldn't have to lie to do it. "No," he replied finally. "But I'm book smart." It was half true: he'd studied a lot on his own, hoping the skill might come in handy, but he had participated in one episode of field research, with a fifth year, in the back room of Flourish and Blotts. Draco Malfoy was no novice. He pinched her nipple and thrust hard, just once.

"Did you learn that from dirty pictures, or is that your own invention?" Thea purred. He chuckled and bit her lower lip.

"Now answer this question," Draco said after a short pause. "Am I proving you wrong?

As he kissed her, he trailed his free hand down her torso and between her legs. Thea's eyes widened.

"Every minute," she said, her voice thick. She squirmed on the bed, feeling some strange tension spreading from her pelvis all through her body. "Except..." He waited patiently for her to finish the thought, secretly thrilled that he was distracting her so efficiently. "Except I still don't think this will last."

Draco proved her wrong.

Later, while Alethea slept, Draco sat in his chair and stared at the dying embers, what was left of the roaring fire, and decided that even the Dark Lord couldn't have seen this coming.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sometime in the night, Alethea LaChasse woke to find herself alone in a big four-poster bed, which, she soon remembered, belonged to Draco Malfoy. There was enough moonlight streaming through the tall windows and enough of the embers' glow to tell her that Draco was nowhere to be found, that the armchair still had its back to her and the table was still tidy, and that her pajama bottoms and his shirt were still lying on the floor next to the bed. She looked around for the silk shirt she had been wearing, and when she saw it glowing like a pool of unicorn blood next to the armchair, everything came flooding back: his hands, his eyes, the intensity. The fact that he may have enchanted her.

He hadn't been particularly forthcoming on the subject, hadn't even given her a straight answer. He never said, "No, Thea, I didn't use a spell, unless you count my chiseled features and lean abdominals." But why else would she have let him touch her like that?

The more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that she hadn't fought back. She had let it all happen. For a moment, she was convinced that she _wanted_ it to happen. She remembered his hands, his eyes; she remembered his mouth on hers. The moment he kissed her, she had had no choice. But he hadn't forced her. She knew what he meant when he said she had twisted his arm: she had made him want her, and he couldn't resist. With that kiss, she had been in the same position.

But if she had been drugged, not in her right mind, it would all make sense. If he had taken her judgment away, maybe that's why she hadn't fought. Or why she had almost enjoyed it. Or why she didn't feel very guilty. Had he drugged her so she wouldn't feel guilty?

And where was he, anyway? Probably off sending owls to all his friends telling them he was finally a man.

She reached to the floor for her bottoms and put on his shirt in lieu of her own. The air was still warm—maybe the incantation was still in effect? If it was, he could try to take her again. This time, she promised herself she would fight it.

The floor was chilly, so she tiptoed quickly to the rug in front of the fireplace. As she reached down for her shirt, she caught sight of a goblet resting on the arm of the chair. And then the pale hand that held it.

Draco seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He managed to keep all the firewhiskey in the goblet, but he retained a slightly startled, guilty expression as she stood opposite him, as if he didn't want her to see him shirtless.

"Aren't you a little young to be brooding in front of a dying fire with a goblet of whiskey?" she said.

He took a sip and grimaced. "No such thing." He looked into the goblet. "Besides, I have a lot of responsibilities. A lot on my mind." He looked up at her and grudgingly offered her the cup. She shook her head and he took another sip.

The embers sizzled and gave an occasional snap as if to break the awkward silence. She wondered about his responsibilities, what Voldemort may have asked him to do. The Dark Lord was going to take over the world, that was certain, and he wouldn't do it by offering everyone chocolate frogs. Alethea was in the presence of a dangerous person, one who was at the beck and call of the _most_ dangerous person the wizarding world had ever seen. And she had nowhere to go.

"My family," she said. "They don't know where I am or what happened. Can I send a—"

"Already done," he said. "I was vague, but if they're not daft they'll figure it out."

"Don't talk about my parents like that."

"They're useless."

She gritted her teeth. "Back to your old self, I see."

He had the audacity to laugh. "What made you think I had a new self?"

Alethea stood and glared at him before stomping to the screen in the corner, where she changed back into the silk pajama top. She returned to the fire and flung his shirt at him.

"Must have been a pretty powerful spell," she said.

He glanced at her briefly. "No spell," he replied, returning his gaze to the logs in the fire.

_Sure._ She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling cold and somehow exposed. "Show me to my room."

He looked up at her, stared at her for the longest time. He thought about how soft her skin was, how silky her hair was, and how her lips tasted like—but he couldn't put a finger on it. All he knew was that he wanted to taste them again, wanted to smell her hair and feel her skin. Wanted her to stay.

Draco gestured behind him in the general direction of the bed. "Your room's probably freezing. Just stay here, I won't bother you." He took another gulp of firewhiskey.

Alethea seethed. "Won't bother me?" she said. "One minute it's all 'Thea, oh Thea…'" She affected a high-pitched, breathy voice and contorted her face into one of grotesque ecstasy. Draco's grip tightened on his goblet. "And the next minute you're sitting alone with a goblet of firewhiskey telling me you 'won't bother me'?"

"Trust a woman to be angry that I made love to her once and more angry that I won't do it again!" he retorted.

"You call that making love? I call it convulsing for two and a half minutes and then lying in the dark in shame!"

He threw his goblet to the ground, spilling firewhiskey all over the rug. A good deal of it splashed into the fireplace, and the fire roared to life for a second or two. "I could kill you for that, LaChasse."

"Ironic, because I almost died laughing."

"You're lying. I remember it differently." He leapt to his feet and came at her. "I remember you melting in a puddle at my feet when I kissed you."

"That's because you're an arrogant prick."

"And I remember you nearly purring when I touched you."

"A _very_ powerful spell, then."

He rubbed his eyes hard with the tips of his fingers. "Merlin's beard, woman, go back to bed." Draco shifted in his chair, turning his body away from her. Thea's shoulders drooped. This was turning out very badly indeed.

She began to walk back across the room, then stopped. Without turning around, she said, "Where will you sleep?"

"Here," he replied from behind her.

She sighed. "Draco, I won't kick you out of your own bed."

He didn't respond.

Weak daylight was filtering through the windows when she woke to strangled whimpers. She turned her head to find Draco in bed beside her, tangled in the bedclothes and twitching, his eyes squeezed shut as if he were in pain. She said his name, but he didn't respond. Hoping it was a nightmare and nothing worse, she placed her hand on his head and gently stroked his hair. The twitching began to subside, the whimpering faded. She ran her fingers through his hair, fine and white as moonlight. He took a deep, shuddering breath and rolled toward her.

"Thea?" he said.

She gulped. "Yes?"

But he was asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Alethea had to find her own way to the kitchen in the morning. Draco had once again disappeared, and this time he wasn't brooding in his favorite chair. He had been right about one thing, though—the house was freezing. She had absconded with a pair of his slippers and vowed to send an owl to her parents requesting gold. She couldn't possibly wear Draco's pajamas for the rest of her stay. With a lump in her throat she wondered how long her stay would last.

The house was vast and painfully empty. She didn't know how they could stand the oppressive silence, the bone-chilling cold. Maybe the atmosphere had nothing to do with the weather; maybe it was fear she felt.

As in most old houses, the kitchen was as far from the bedrooms and dining room as it could be to muffle the noise of the house elves at work. But there were no house elves—at least, not in the kitchen. No smell of cooking. No smell of food, even. There was a loaf of bread in the breadbox, kippers and eggs in the icebox, but without her wand she had no way to light the range. After a moment of thought, she began to search the room for matches. She hadn't expected to find any, and she didn't. The family lived by their wands, slept with them under their pillows, most likely. In this house, she would certainly do the same.

She cut herself a slice of bread and gnawed on it thoughtfully. The knife gleamed on the countertop, and for a moment she thought about smuggling it in her pajamas, just in case. But this wasn't some sordid adventure story.

Draco found her there a few minutes later. He looked much warmer than her in his black turtleneck and trousers. He did not, however, look particularly glad to see her.

"Morning," he said gruffly. She toasted him grudgingly with her slice of bread.

"Where's your elf?" she said.

He cleared his throat. "We don't keep one. We use my aunt's, when she's here."

"Is she here often?"

He shrugged.

"Is she…" Thea nervously brushed crumbs off her trousers. "Is she here now?"

Draco watched her for a second, noticed some tenseness in her shoulders, the way she wouldn't look at him. He shook his head. "No. Nor is he." She looked up at him, and he could tell she knew who he meant. She relaxed.

"Light the stove, won't you?" she said lightly, reaching for a pan. He did as she asked while she pulled a few ingredients from the icebox and the cupboard. She started heating up some oil and glanced to her left. Draco was sitting on the counter where she had cut the bread, just watching her.

"You could make some toast and put the kettle on," she said. It wasn't so much a suggestion as a command, and she smiled inwardly as Draco went about his tasks. He groaned and made a fuss, but he did it.

When they sat down to eat, choosing the cozy kitchen over the austere dining room (which seemed about a kilometer away anyway), Thea watched him carefully. He ate with impeccable manners, but the food was gone in a matter of minutes. He didn't speak, didn't make any noise. She savored hers, hoping she wouldn't have to cook again but worried that that would mean she didn't eat again. Frankly, she wasn't a very good cook.

Draco pushed his plate to the side and rested his elbows on the table top. He cleared his throat.

"That was… tolerable."

Thea narrowed her eyes at him and stabbed her egg.

"What I mean is…" He paused. "I might chain you down here and have you cook for me all day."

"You pig."

"To have _you_ fix me breakfast every day, wearing my pajamas…" He smiled. "Surely you understand the allure."

She shook her head and hid her smile. "That reminds me. I will be needing some real clothes."

He stared blankly at her. "Not following."

Thea narrowed her eyes and threw a bit of toast at him, feeling better than she thought possible after the events of the previous evening. It was surprising the amount of magic in a hot meal.

He tossed the toast onto his plate and brushed the crumbs from his sweater. "My mother has lent you a few gowns. They're in your room. We'd be best to stay away from Diagon Alley, so they'll have to last you until you're back at Hogwarts."

She nodded. "And my parents? When can I see them?"

Draco reached into his back pocket and pulled out a bit of parchment. He set it on the table in front of her, and she snatched it up almost before he had taken his hand away. The writing inside was familiar, but shaky.

She scanned the letter a few times, but couldn't quite understand what it meant. Thea lifted her gaze to Draco, who was running his finger along a crack in the table.

"What did you write them?" she said. "What is this 'all you have done' business?"

Draco ran a hand through his hair, much like his father had the night before. "I said you were alive and unharmed, that were being provided for, and that they would receive an owl from you in a few days as proof." Perhaps it wasn't word-for-word what he had written last night—perhaps he had used the word "safe" instead of "unharmed," "taken care of" instead of "provided for." He had expected fury and terror in their response. He hadn't expected them to thank him, to declare themselves forever in his debt.

"And what about the Dark Lord?" she said, her voice rising in volume. "Did you warn them?"

"Of course not. I'm not daft." He took a sip of tea. "Anyway, they already know, or will soon. And if they don't know, they have a pretty good guess."

Alethea sat quietly, hoping her parents were somewhere far away, in hiding, not worrying too much about her. But from the looks of things, from the letter in her hand, they didn't seem to be worrying much at all.

"So you're their hero then, is that it?" she said. "You've imagined yourself a bloody hero."

"I didn't lie to them, if that's what you mean. I didn't stretch the truth, or paint myself in some angelic light." Draco shoved the plate farther away, causing the cutlery to clatter loudly. "I didn't even sign my name. Couldn't risk it."

"What are you then?" Thea said. "If you're not a hero, why did you send the letter?"

"Look, if you didn't want me to tell them you were safe—"

"I _did_ want you to!" she said. "I wanted you to tell my parents I was okay, and you did. I wanted you to put the kettle on, for goodness sake, and you did!" Thea sighed. "Why are you being so kind?"

Draco shrugged and refused to look at her.

Thea widened her eyes and affected a tone of awe. "Could Draco Malfoy be feeling guilty for what he did last night?" she said.

He stood quickly enough to knock his chair over, and the sound echoed like thunder in the empty kitchen. With a steely look in his eye, Draco replied tartly, "Yeah, something like that," and stormed out of the room.

Shaken from his violent outburst, Alethea didn't move for several seconds. When she heard his footsteps disappearing down the corridor, she relaxed her shoulders and began to tidy up the table, thinking the menial task would keep her mind occupied. She dumped the dishes and cutlery into the sink, which was full of plates and saucers, knives and forks, all crusted with bits of food that could have been there for a day or a month. The Malfoys were in poor shape, but she wasn't surprised. She had seen the five o'clock shadow on Lucius' chin.

The corridors were just as silent now as they had been before. A door slamming startled her, but she imagined Draco must have finally made it to his room, still in a huff. Not that he had any right to be, in her opinion. Everything that had happened last night had been his fault, and she was justified in her anger. And yet she couldn't bring herself to feel any real grief. She knew it should be there, that she should hate herself for allowing it all to happen, but frankly, it had been quite… nice. After their heartbeats had returned to a reasonable tempo and the sweat had begun to evaporate from their skin, they had chatted about Hogwarts and their childhoods like old friends. Old friends who were lying naked in each other's arms.

Thea retraced her steps through the halls, more comfortable now that she knew Voldemort wasn't lurking in every shadow, and that Bellatrix wouldn't appear from around a bend. She paused outside Draco's door but heard no sound from within. And then she realized what he may have meant, last night. If he hadn't cast that spell, she would have felt dirty, defiled, disgraced. And maybe he had even done it on purpose, not because he wanted her to come quietly, for his sake, but because he didn't want her to hate herself. He had given her peace of mind. And maybe she could learn to forgive him for that, some day.

She lifted her hand to knock on his door, but a gentle glow to her right shifted her focus. A half-open door beckoned her, and she crept toward it.

Sunlight spilled in through huge windows, landing on a pristine carpet and a perfectly made bed. It wasn't as big a room as Draco's, nor did it have nearly as much heavy-looking furniture, but it seemed comfortable. It was clearly a guest room—there were no personal touches, no portraits, nothing in the open wardrobe. On the bed lay three gowns, all in shades of grey or brown, the very height of fashion, but of the sort her mother would wear. This, then, must be the room Narcissa had prepared for her.

Thea shut the door softly—why she needed to be so stealthy, she couldn't say. Shrugging out of Draco's pajamas, she picked up the gown furthest to the right, the one that laced up in the back, but visions of enchanted laces tightening until her intestines exploded caused her to don the gown on the left instead. The gown fit well enough, but there were so many buttons going up the back that she could only accomplish a few of them. She sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of stockings, realizing too late that the pile of them on the bed was in no semblance of order. With a sigh, she exchanged the shorter of her two stockings with one that appeared to be longer and slid her feet into a pair of Narcissa's boots. They pinched her toes, but at least they weren't slippers.

Narcissa was taller than Alethea, so the girl had to hike up the skirts to keep from tripping as she made her way to Draco's room, his shoes and pajamas in one hand. She rapped twice on the door, heard a brisk "come," and entered.

He was sitting in the big winged chair, and he had stoked the fire. The book in his lap was yellowed and falling apart. He turned a page carefully before he looked up. When he did, he stared. Though she was wearing his mother's clothes, which didn't fit quite right, Alethea looked noble, grown up, and perfectly comfortable standing in his doorway. The sun hit her hair in such a way to make it glow. He wondered why her image struck him so forcefully now—as if he could have come to miss her in ten minutes.

He closed the book gently and placed it, face down and spine away from her, on the chair as he stood. "Doesn't quite fit, does it?" he said.

"Do me up," she said, turning around to show him her back. She heard him stand, but if he was approaching her, he couldn't have walked any slower. Finally she turned around. He hadn't moved from the fireplace.

"Could it have been something I said?" she asked with a grim smile. He planted himself where he stood and crossed his arms.

"There's a little guilt," he said finally. She gave him a look that proved she had no idea what he was talking about. He blinked. "You were right. There's a little guilt."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you do feel guilty?"

"I didn't exactly say that, did I?"

_Men_, she thought, realizing it was probably the most truth she was going to get out of him. With a nod, she replied, "Well, I'm sorry I said what I said. I don't know why you're trying to help, but…"

"Turn around," he said.

She did, and within a moment she felt his hands at her back. But he didn't do her up. Instead, he walked his fingers from her back to her waist, then wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek against her hair. Thea smiled.

"How many people can say they've been snuggled by Draco Malfoy?" she teased.

He spun her around and kissed her full on the lips. Her smile was replaced with a rather convincing look of disbelief.

"To answer your question, I don't know why I'm being kind," he said, still standing too close for her to think clearly. "Could be that you're an old friend, and you don't deserve what's happened. And I feel responsible."

She took a deep breath. "You were following orders. I would have done the same."

He kissed her again, very gently, his lips barely brushing hers. "I also don't know why I'm kissing you right now," he murmured.

She smiled. "It's because I'm wearing your mum's dress," she said lightly. "First your pajamas, now this—really, Draco, I think you have some sort of perverted clothes fetish."

Almost before she could finish her joke, he laughed and wrapped her up in his arms, causing her to drop his slippers in surprise. His lips were soft and yielding, and she moaned quietly as he slipped his tongue into her welcoming mouth. He ran his fingers up and down her bare back, memorizing the smooth contours. As she started playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, Draco pulled his wand out of his waistband and swung the door shut. He led her to the rug in front of the fireplace, where he sat down and tugged her down to join him. He leaned against the armchair and guided Thea's head to his shoulder.

Alethea found that she was quite content to snuggle up to him. With his arm around her and a fire roaring in the hearth, it was like nothing could go wrong. And the warning voice in her head had almost given it a rest. She felt Draco rubbing his thumb absently on her arm, and she smiled.

"You're snuggling me again, Draco," she said.

"I seem to be unable to keep my hands off you," he replied. "It would take a stronger man than I to keep you at a distance."

She sighed. "Like Blaise Zabini."

He stiffened. "You think Blaise is stronger than me?" he said, the old arrogance returning to his voice.

"No, no," she amended, "I mean, Blaise can easily keep me at a distance. Has for six years."

He scoffed. "You don't fancy _him_, do you?"

She shrugged. "A bit. He's good-looking."

"He is at that."

Turning her face up to his, Thea asked, "Are you still seeing Pansy?"

"I've seen more of you than I have of her."

She smacked him in the stomach and he grimaced in mock agony. "Are you _going_ with her?" she clarified.

"Why? Are you jealous?"

"Nope," Alethea replied. "I don't see Pansy Parkinson snuggled up with you in front of a big fire, wearing your mum's clothes."

"Do you know," Draco said, his fingers lingering on the buttons at her back, the only ones she had managed to do up herself, "I think the clothes are becoming a bit of a problem, actually."

"How so?" she asked.

He began undoing her, button by button, with one hand. She wondered how many hours of practice that took. "Every time you open your mouth, I'm afraid you're going to scold me."

She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she should still be angry, that she wasn't being herself—that the spell was still working. But as he said, it was a powerful spell, and if he kept doing things to her that made her heart leap and her stomach fill up with butterflies, Alethea decided she could get used to being enchanted. "Well," she replied, "you have been very bad indeed."

"Shut up," he retorted with a little smile, and there, on the rug, he proved just how much he cared about Pansy Parkinson.


End file.
